


Boredom.

by LepidusLacrimae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Please Review, Sad, Short, Sorry just searching for feedback, Will countinue writing if you like, pilot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 09:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10273931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LepidusLacrimae/pseuds/LepidusLacrimae
Summary: This is literally three paragraphs, I would love if you took the time to read and give me some feedback. If I get enough, I may write more. Thanks





	

My eyes open. A millisecond, the closing of your eyelids and the movement of your pupils in a thousand different directions, you mind- processing a million different things. It is fascinating. I open my eyes. My vision is outlined by that momentary blur that is characteristic of early mornings and small New Roman printed words. Font size eleven. I always seem to remember the wrong things, if you were here you would surely criticize this, but of course end with a slight smile as if amused by my ignorant, when compared to yours, mind. I don’t mind. I wonder why. I’ve always wondered why. Maybe I’m a masochist. Maybe I’m a closeted sociopath, if that's the term. Maybe I was in love with you all those years, something many seem to jump to. That is probably true, I would never admit it, but perhaps it is. I wouldn’t know. Regardless, I know that the root of my “not minding,” if it could be called such as deep within me I know that I have a sort of appreciation for your little mockings, your gentle jibes, your taunts and insults and- that smile. The one you hid behind your hand. I love that.

Boredom. I never realized until you were gone, until you left, you being the smug bastard you are, thinking you can cheat death. Boredom. I have countless memories of you, you, your pale skin and those blue eyes that cut me open and take my heart and makes it pound- all for you to see. Rambling. Back on track. I have a memory of you, countless, but this one in particular, you laying on that cheap green couch, that faded green with the countless holes that reveal the yellow stuffing. Your head would be propped on the arm rest, your eyes closed and your dark lashes fluttering across your cheek. Your body, much too long for the short couch, would be stretched out on the green, a flimsy robe covering your skin. Your legs would be flung over the other arm rest, your legs dangling on and nearly touching the floor. Your hand, god I miss those hands, those bony and ridiculously long fingers would stretch out toward your forehead, and you would scrunch the skin there into those wrinkles that scar my head, but never yours. You seem to be ageless- smooth face, lacking wrinkles, sparkling eyes. Sidetracked. Your hands. You would wrinkle the skin with such delicacy, I would be captivated. Your words would then fill the room, fill my mind.

“So bored, John. I’m far too bored.” I know I’m lying to myself, you would probably end with a shout, maybe taking a gun from under the cushion and shoot the wall, I do like to remember you as a delicate, untouchable, beauty- someone far out of my reach. Your imperfections are nonexistent in the plains of my memory. I know if you were here now, if you were, your imperfections would be beautiful to me, I wouldn’t get that stupid frustration that filled me when you shot that wall, when you called me from halfway across London to use my phone, I wouldn’t. I promise. I would do everything, those ridiculous notions and all those stupid, stupid things you wanted me to do. I would, I promise, just please-

Just come home Sherlock.


End file.
